


many a sin

by furygf



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Renegade Shepard (Mass Effect), Ruthless (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furygf/pseuds/furygf
Summary: there is a soldier, a small room, and a series of questions.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	many a sin

A clock is ticking. It sits above the door, an old-fashioned analog clock. The count falters every few beats, just enough to rankle in the silence.

A bit of minor psychological warfare, perhaps. Or someone just liked the look of it.

She sits there, back rigid, feet firmly on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap. There is a table in front of her, a pair of chairs on the other side. She does not touch it. Her eyes do not waver from the door. Her stiff posture might indicate professionalism to the casual observer. She has gotten very, very good at this. Look just a bit closer and you might see it for the mockery it is. 

After seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, at least by count of an untrustworthy clock, the door finally opens. A man steps in, an admiral. It’s unprecedented, she thinks; it’s almost enough to put her on edge. Almost.

He sits at one of the chairs, folding his own hands on the table. She should know his name, but she doesn’t, and he makes no introductions. He skips straight to the interview. The questions are the same as always. The difference is what answers they want.

The shrinks want something emotional. Regret, maybe. Guilt, definitely. Her superiors want _a goddamn explanation, Shepard_. Sometimes they’re more polite about it, which she doesn’t appreciate. She’s been questioned by committees and duos and solo interrogators. Some of them praise her, off the record. Others think she should be stripped of all she has; a dishonorable discharge at the least. The rest just want to put the entire debacle to bed.

She can’t quite gauge what he’s looking for, but it doesn’t matter. She answers the same each time.

It mostly goes like this:

They ask, _what the hell happened on Torfan?_

Read the reports.

She snaps it before a stern look is lobbed her way, then launches into the same tale, well-worn after over a month and thirty-seven retellings. She adopts a carefully measured tone, betrayed only by the twitch of a muscle in her jaw and the harsh set of her brow.

They ask, _do you know how many people died?_

Yes, sir. Thirty-seven belonging to her own unit and a hell of a lot more batarians.

This response gets her a curt reprimand. She tosses back a smirk, dropping the pretence of professionalism for a moment. He moves on without comment. His expression doesn’t even change.

They settle into the rest of the questions, softball stuff. Her answers are a series of _yes, sir’s_ and _no, sir’s_ and brief explanations where required. They won’t get a scrap more out of her. By the end of the interview, she’s leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. The admiral stands up.

This time, he breaks the script. He asks, _do you regret it?_ Usually it’s only psychologists who venture that direction.

She takes it in stride and leans forward, just a hair, baring her teeth in a grin; a stark contrast to her smirks. It isn’t a kind thing, glinting sharp and predatory.

_Not one bit, sir._

He doesn’t respond. Simply leaves the room with a faint shake - or is that a nod? - of his head.

The clock continues to tick. One minute and forty-six seconds later, someone comes to escort her back to her cell that is not officially a cell. She paces for an indeterminate amount of time before someone else brings her that evening's bland rations. She eats, then exercises as much as the room allows. It isn’t much, but she knows how to make do. She settles for a series of push ups, keeps going until her arms start to shake. When she’s wasted enough time that way, she lays down and sleeps fitfully. She wakes up abruptly, twice, eyes red but dry, a shout lodged in her raw throat. Nobody is there to know this.

The next morning, she is released. Officially returned to duty. The next assignment is awaiting.

  
  


Two weeks and three days later, she receives an email.

_In light of recent actions and noteworthy service record, the Systems Alliance formally extends an offer of admittance to Interplanetary Combatives Training._

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://furygf.tumblr.com/)


End file.
